


The Line Between Damaged and Broken

by Bodldops



Category: The Bedlam Stacks - Natasha Pulley
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 14:15:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17045240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bodldops/pseuds/Bodldops
Summary: That space between capable and useless is a bit wider than Merrick first supposed, back when he woke up in China.  The space between stranger and friend is more quickly traversed than Raphael would have believed, back when he was summoned from his room in Azangaro.





	The Line Between Damaged and Broken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lesyeuxverts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesyeuxverts/gifts).



The dinner was a disaster.

“What,” Raphael said, slowly, less like he was searching for words in a strange language and more like he was searching for words that might be mistaken as polite, “have you done to this?”

I thought that was more than a little unfair. Making dinner had been the end result of a day spent in search of something to do. With Clem gone on his journey back to Azangaro, I’d been left to my own devices. Raphael, it turned out, had quite a lot to do as the town’s priest after being away, and had left early, while I was still pottering about. I hadn’t quite shaken the habit I’d developed at home, where no one needed (or wanted) my presence or input on anything, of dragging out the process of getting ready for the day for almost longer than was reasonable. Once I’d shaken off the morning fog, I’d thought to be industrious - maybe explore Bedlam, collect some tidbits about local life for Clem to enjoy later. Taking along my notebook to sketch anything interesting, I set out into the bizarrely frozen landscape.

The town was gorgeous, oddly built like a fishing village over a shallow coastal inlet as it practically hovered over the glass outcroppings, cleverly connected by suspended bridges. I could have happily spent the entire day exploring, realizing how much Quechua I actually knew and practicing what Spanish had been drummed into my head (and hopefully managing to eradicate the lisp that bothered Raphael so). However, it was shocking how quickly the cold ground into my bones if given half a chance. There wasn’t even a suggestion that the land was going to remember any time soon that it was actually summer. I limped heavily back to the church. It was almost, bizarrely, gratifying when no one I passed commented on the effort it took for me to travel.

It was almost like being my old self again. Though, I could do without the pain from my leg. The heat inside the church helped, and soon I was feeling restless again. I’d briefly thought of finishing my drawing of Clem’s dendrographs, but with the bruises still fresh from the attack, I wasn’t overly enthused about risking a second. I saw Raphael briefly mid-afternoon, when he paused by the church to collect more salt for the markayuq, but then he was gone again to go care for them.  
I’d then thought to read – there were a fair few books in the church, surprising mostly of a secular nature. That mystery, at least, had quickly resolved itself – on the flyleaves, in neat copperplate handwriting, was the name of someone I’d vaguely remembered from the lists of adventurers who had tried to reach the quinine trees before.

Of course, that’d only opened a new mystery. Why hadn’t they come back for these, before leaving?

Tired of questions that had no answers, I abandoned the books and wandered back into the kitchen. I knew how to use the stove, and I’d seen Raphael make supper often enough. When he finally got done cleaning the statues, I could at least offer something warm to eat. I hadn’t been nearly as fluid as he was, with none of the muscle memory to help me along. However, by the time he came edging into the kitchen, the quinoa had been cooked, and there was freshly sliced pineapple. Rather proud of myself for my accomplishment, however slight, I got him a bowl.

Which led, quickly, to the question.

“What do you mean? I haven’t burnt it.” I protested, the words sounding a bit more peevish to my ears than I’d intended. I couldn’t help it. Uselessness was a chronic, grating problem and I wasn’t pleased to have it thrust upon me again.

“Try it.” He ordered gruffly, though there was some amusement in his words I didn’t understand. Almost defiantly, I shoveled a spoonful into my mouth, ready to defend my culinary masterpiece.

It was all I could do not to spit it back out again. There was acrid, bitter taste, nothing at all like the warm nutty flavor I’d been expecting. With the practice from the navy allowing me to ruthlessly swallow the over-enthusiastic mouthful, I dove for the cup of tea I’d left on the table as Raphael laughed at my expression.

“Bloody hell, what’s wrong with it?” I demanded, gasping – the flavor lingered unpleasantly, despite me draining my cup dry.

“This is the first time you have cooked quinoa?” Raphael asked, not unkindly, but there was still laughter in his voice. I tried not to be riled by it, but it grated over already raw nerves. Raphael scooped up both bowls and took the entire pot of the stuff out to dispose of it. He wasn’t gone for long, and I’d taken the time to soothe my disappointment.

“So, what mysterious step did I miss? I could have sworn I’d managed to copy what I’d seen you do before.” I asked, aiming for jovial curiosity. I was curious, even if I wasn’t feeling particularly pleased at the moment. Something in my tone must have been off, because I earned a raised eyebrow from Raphael.

“Don’t worry about it, you don’t have to…” He started, but I interrupted.

“I want to.” I grimaced as the words came out more sharply than I intended them to, and sighed. “Sorry, it’s not… I’m not mad at you, I’m… frustrated. I guess I’m still not as accepting of the way my life is now as I’d want to pretend.” If anything, Raphael’s expression became more confused, not less, so I tried to explain. “This… my leg, I mean, it’s all still fairly recent.”

Raphael, surprisingly, nodded.

“I thought those scars looked fresh, and you barked like an officer when you were trying to rescue your friend from baptism.” He still sounded amused, but… somehow it was less at me, than with me. “And they made you come all the way out here? For quinine?”

“I wanted to come.” I said it, and found it was actually true. Perhaps it hadn’t been at first, but if given a choice between being where I was despite the frustration or being back home, getting ready to be packed off to that damnable parsonage like a bit of unwanted luggage… well. It wasn’t exactly a difficult choice. “I wasn’t lying, before, when I said I’d rather be shot here than go back home. I really will be sent to rot in a parsonage, raising chickens and trying to look somehow like I meant all along to retire to the countryside rather than spend my days with the British East India Company. This is my last chance, really. To prove I haven’t lost all of my usefulness along with my leg.” I paused and frowned down at the table. “To myself as much as anyone else.”

When I looked up again, Raphael was staring. For a period long enough for me to worry that he’d fallen asleep again, he looked at me like he was just seeing me for the first time or re-evaluating some previously held notion.

“Quinoa protects itself from predators.” He announced, having come to some decision and neglecting to tell me what it was. Well… in so many words, anyway. However, he was thorough in his explanation of how to render quinoa edible without making it sound like he was explaining the basic to an idiot interloper, so the message came through well enough.

Maybe I would never have my old mobility back, but at least one person didn’t see me as useless.


End file.
